


A Time I Fell

by ofwickedlight



Series: Tumblr ASOIAF Oneshots [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Canon - Book, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Character Study, Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Rhaella Targaryen, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Reminiscing, Rhaella Targaryen Lives, Self-Reflection, The Targs Won the Rebellion and baby Aegon is King (with Rhaella as his Regent)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22757503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: The flames turned flesh to ash, and the Queen Regent's scars had never been more faded.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen
Series: Tumblr ASOIAF Oneshots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642528
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	A Time I Fell

**Author's Note:**

> _Now you're just a scar, a story I tell_   
>  _Such an ugly mark, I wear it so well._
> 
> —"Scar," by Foxes

* * *

The ash swarmed the air, danced in thrashing gold light. Rhaella watched it fall, held her breath. Charred flesh still found its way inside her, though, and the heat took her, licked and clawed and flayed at her, even from afar. It was vast, towering, its halo reaching the heavens and the world, rising, rising. She had seen flames like this before, once. Summerhall. Summerhall, where Grandmother and Grandfather and Ser Duncan and Uncle Duncan and her heart burned and fell and died, and Rhaegar writhed from her loins, and she lay there screaming and bleeding, and the smoke choked her.

Aerys had found her, after the birth. No. Not Aerys, not yet. Ery. Still half a boy. Still with that gentleness only she was ever allowed to see. Still fitting the name she had given him, before the witch spewed her prophecies, and Father and Grandfather forsook her. Before all their dead children, and Duskendale.

And her. Rhaella. She’d been Ellie, still. Ery had gifted her with that name, once. An innocent sound, as sweet and unbroken as she had been. The name had died the moment the witch spoke, but still. Still.

She still remembered the feeling of his arms around her and Rhaegar as they all lay in the only bed in Summerhall that had not become soot. Her loins ached, and her soul was numb, but she was warm, and Aerys’ skinny arms were strong, anchoring her, and Rhaegar was soft, and silent, and beautiful, and theirs. Only death paid for life, she knew, and they had all paid to bring forth the Promised Prince. She had closed her young eyes, rested her head on her brother’s shoulder. _I felt safe with him,_ Rhaella remembered, and it was queer to think of it—a time where she’d been in the presence of her husband and had not been afraid, had not been numb. But, yes. She had felt safe with him, once, loved. Then.

Ery had been glad to give her that safety, that strength, that home. He had kissed her temple with the softest, grieving sighs. _You’ve done well, Ellie,_ he’d told her, thumb grazing Rhaegar’s cheek.

Not well enough. She had bore him one son, but never another, not for years. Only blood, and withered, small corpses. When he’d decided the endless miscarriages and silent births were because of her imagined adultery, he had beaten her so badly she thought she would see Grandpapa again, and half of her welcomed it.

That was the beginning of the madness. The birth of her scars.

Not the end, though.

The end came with jade fire, and the nights they summoned. Claws that sank, dug, ripped, marked her forever. Smoke, clung to his robes, drifting off unwashed skin. Tearing teeth, rancid breath. Laughter, and aching loins. She ached there again now, from Daenerys. He had forced their daughter in her. Not Ery. Aerys.

A tiny hand tugged at hers. “Mother?” asked Viserys. His voice had never been so hushed, so afraid. “Will... will Father become a dragon, now?”

Rhaella’s eyes didn’t leave the pyre, but she squeezed her son’s fingers. She hoped he couldn’t feel her shaking. “We were born dragons, my hatchling,” she told him. _But this thing did not die as one._

She sent Viserys away before he could question what she’d said—she would not lie to her son about what King Aerys had been, nor would she let him see his father become naught but dust and black. _She_ would watch, though. The creature burning had only been her husband. Not her brother. Her brother had died long ago.

Rhaella watched. She watched as the gold flames swelled, and chanted, and flew, and burned. She watched as they descended, dimmed, cooled. She watched as black dust became dark wisps, as they fell like tears, tears she had never cried, because dragons breathed fire, never salt. She watched until it was done.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan called, voice riddled with concern. Ahh. It was night, now. She had not noticed.

Rhaella did not look his way. Kept her eyes on the pyre. She felt his averting eyes, though. His shame. It had drowned him since she’d started wearing dresses that did not hide her chest, her neck, her shoulders. No silk to shield, no loose, falling hair, no unmarred skin—just faded slashes, and bites, and endless red on white. He would see the Queen Regent’s scars. The world would. She had commanded it.

“I will stay a while longer,” she said, coldly. “Leave me.”

He did as she bid him, in a way he had never done when she was just Queen Consort, and she’d screamed behind oaken doors, and he’d stood vigil at the king’s command. But there was no king, now. Only a babe with a king’s title, and a Queen.

_You’ve done well._ The faintest sound, the ghost of a wind, but in her heart, she heard it. Her loins ached, and her scars gleamed in the moonlight, gleamed black, black as Aerys’ soul, black as nothing, because it _was_ nothing, in truth. Just the tale of some wraith who’d had a crown for eons, but had never been Queen.

Rhaella’s eyes did not leave the floating ash that had once been Aerys Targaryen. She placed one hand over her heart, where her brother was, now. _You’ve done well, Ellie._

“Rhaella,” she whispered, so only he would hear. “My name is Rhaella.”

Ash filled the queen’s mouth. She drank it.


End file.
